“...Cheeky, aren’t you?”
It’s muttered through gritted teeth, as Malachite’s fingers dig into the edges of the seed packets in their hands— tearing them open, roughly enough that a couple of the smaller few begin to fall through the gaps between their fingers, tumbling onto the floor. The Heavenly Embassy’s gardens, despite their affections for whatever remains of Melangel’s creations they’d been abl...
